The Case of the Missing Sharpener

It was a dark and stormy night. Rain lashed the windows and the trees bent to the fury of the wind. 

Despite the tumult outside, it was quiet and peaceful in room 102. Twin shafts of dim light were splayed across the desks, chairs and floor. Slowly, from the deepest shadows, a smallish, darkly garbed figure emerged. Silently gliding past the wall of coat hooks, around Hoadley’s desk and past the cappuccino maker, the figure slithered like an anaconda.

There, in the back of the room, he neared the object of his desire. Its fine craftsmanship was evident. Made from rare, imported plastic and stainless steel of the highest tensile strength, it was valuable beyond measure. It nearly glowed in the dim light - a deep, rich, blood-red hue. 

His breath came in ragged gasps of excitement as his eyes fell on the one thing he desired above all others. His leather encased hand reached and grasped the treasure, caressing it and rolling it into his palm. His excitement was palpable. “My Precious,” he hissed. Slowly, he turned and skulked from the room.

It was silent, again, and strangely empty.

That, my friends, is how we lost our pencil sharpener. 

Now, my legion of junior Sherlock Holmes' we must restore our room to its original condition. The sharpener must be returned to it’s rightful place. All depends on your work. Failure dooms us to a year of writing with dull, lifeless pencils. 

We must find our sharpener! 

Go now and investigate. Search, question and prevail. All depends on you!